Letting bygones be bygones

It was the place that welcomed me when I was lost with no idea what to do with my life. They gave me a job, a place in their community, their hearts, their space.

I worked hard for six years, spending day in and day out in that place. I cried there many, many times, laughed there equally often, and learned more about myself and human nature than I ever expected to learn in a 9-5 administrative assistant position.

I met the most amazing people, some of whom will be my friends for life. I also met some who defy explanation and understanding so complex are their issues and personalities - in a not good way. (Still boggles the mind years later.)

That place was my home away from home for so long that it took me way too long to realize that the dream had become a nightmare, and that I needed to get out.

I stayed on long after realization finally dawned, sticking it out because it was right for my family if not for me. Everything that had been promised, everything I had been led to hope for had long ago been ripped away and all that was left was a stack of shattered dreams, my destroyed self-esteem, and the community that still supported and carried me.

Smiling faces and kind words made it possible to endure the less savory moments of the last couple years. It was tolerable as long as I knew I was connecting with these people, possibly making a difference in their lives. I never stopped believing that these people cared for me, that they'd be happy for me if I ever found a way to leave, that they would remain my community, my extended family.

Friday night I returned to that place after a two year absence, dreading the moment I would be spotted. What would they say, these people who never reached out? Not an email, not a call, and barely a nod in my direction when we'd cross paths in town. Would they act delighted? Would they hug me? Ask me how things were? Or would they still ignore me? Reject me for having turned my back on their place of worship?

I snuck in late, Little L on my hip, wearing her as a disguise, as a shield - look at the blond curls! not at me! Eyes widened as they looked beyond her cuteness and saw me, recognized me. Smiles blossomed, then slight confusion crossed their faces.

I thought I would be hurt either way. I thought I would be sad if they were happy, wondering where they'd been the last two years, but the hurt and anger thawed in my chest as their smiles grew and people nodded silent hellos. The thaw spread as the familiar music washed over me.

My heart was broken there long ago, but it was also filled there at one time. It's a place of love that was disrupted by some unfortunate people. Voices rose in prayer around me and I sent my own prayer up to the sky.

"Help me be strong enough to forgive. Help me have the wisdom to let bygones be bygones. Help me not spread the blame to the wrong people. Help me find the strength to come home."

I'm not home yet, but I have my hand on the door and I'm not as scared to push it open as I was last week. It's a start at least.

Raising confident girls, one carefree moment after another

A few months ago I attended an interesting session at C's preschool about raising confident girls. The talk started with terrifying stories about how horrible girls can be to each other - the sorts of things they do and say that destroy self esteem and self confidence. And then, just as we were all about to despair of ever being able to keep our little girls safe and happy, the speaker, Simone Marean of the Girl's Leadership Institute, threw us a bone.

We had begged her for a solution, an answer, a hint as to what we could do to prevent the destruction that was awaiting us. We had asked how we could make our princesses tough enough to withstand the verbal and emotional attacks they would be facing. She answered, (forgive me for summarizing) it's simple, teach them not to care what others think.

Be silly around your kids. Be odd and different in public. Show them again and again and again that it doesn't matter what people think about you, that what matters is to be true to yourself. Once you realize that people's thoughts and words have no power over you, you can do anything, be anyone, and no one can make you feel bad about yourself.

The catch? The only way to teach that is by example.

My girls are lucky. I was already carefree before the talk. I shrug off spills that cover my shirt in coffee. I sing to the muzak in the grocery store. I chase them around looking for hugs, kisses, and tickles. I engage strangers in conversations. I never stop to worry about looking silly.

On Sunday I stood in a rainy plaza with C, Little L, and two little friends, waiting for the other grown-ups in our party. A nearby band was warming up and strains of Led Zeppelin curled around us. I started to bop my head in tune with the music, and, as the sound grew, I turned to my half-pint crowd and asked them to show me their best moves.

The girls looked at me quizzically, but I let my body start to move and one of the little boys joined me, busting into a totally cute and really groovy dance. His eyes were closed and he was just feeling the music. With a twitch of his head and a shake of his arm his older brother joined in, followed by Little L who can never resist a good song, and then, a little reluctantly C started to dance. We must have looked insane, grooving in the rain like that, but I didn't stop to wonder. I let the music move me and let the rain wash over me, and thoroughly enjoyed the moment. Five carefree souls doing what feels good.

"Cool! Teaching her kids to dancing to Led Zeppelin! Now that's a cool mom!"

I looked over to smile at the two guys watching us dance. They nodded appreciatively as we kept right on dancing. They thought I was cool because of my taste in music. They don't know the half of it. I know I'm cool because one moment after another I'm teaching my girls to be fearless and I'm leading them by example.

Self imposed mental blocks

I don't really suffer from writer's block. I can look around me and find a million things to say about every single thing I see. That pile of toys over there, testifying the fact that no one listened to my "no gifts!" plea on C's birthday party invitation. That CD tower over there, bought at the Paris IKEA back when M and I were blissfully kid free and actually listened to music. I could even write about the room itself and the hassle it was to figure out where to put the furniture, or how we came to be living in this house.

No, there's no shortage of material, I just don't want to write about it. I'm boring myself, which doesn't bode well for anyone reading what I write. Except I know that it's not really boring, it's more that I'm having a bit of a crisis, not of faith per se, just of self or at least of calling.

I'm at that point when I start to wonder what I'm doing, where I'm going. I'm questioning every decision, every aspect of my life. I get like this when the stuff that really fulfills me gets hard and challenging. Instead of facing the issue head on I procrastinate, play around, talk myself out of doing anything really constructive, and in the end hate myself for not doing what I need to do.

And what is it I need to do?
-I need to sit down and work on my book for more than 3 minutes a day.
-I need to get off my butt and run more often.

That's it. Fix what's in my head, fix what's in my body. They go hand in hand.They make me feel whole again. They fill me with self worth.

What do I do instead? Anything. Nothing. Whatever. I'm like a kid with zero focus because it's easier than knuckling down and doing what needs to be done. I waste my time and my energy on things that don't matter. To steal from the magical world of comic books, it's like there's a force-field on the path that I'm on, and instead of letting me walk straight down the road, it pushes me to one side and then the other, it doesn't even let me look straight down. I keep having to pull myself back on track, pull my eyes back front and center.

It's simply exhausting and it drains me of the energy I need to keep myself moving forward. So where's the superhero who's going to destroy the force-field and keep me on track?

The only casualty was a box of whoopie pies

Until recently I never put a child in a shopping cart without working straps. I was always anal about making sure they were buckled in safely and securely. I'd read stories about children standing up to grab something and falling out, sustaining horrendous head trauma, and I just couldn't deal with the thought of that happening to one of my girls.

But they've grown since. They're smart and they know I'm not kidding when I tell them they have to stay sitting if they want to stay in the cart. And they're good! They do what they're told.

Last week the girls and I stopped at Trader Joes on our way home for a few staples (chocolate covered pretzels, Jojos...) and some pizza dough for dinner. We shopped quickly and hurried back out to the parking lot. I parked the cart on the sidewalk and told Little L to stay put while I went to unlock the car.

That's when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cart start to roll. I had assumed that the slight angle of the sidewalk wouldn't be an issue, that Little L wouldn't move. I hadn't realized that if she shifted in her seat or moved her legs, that the cart would move from it's spot and start to roll towards the curb. But it did.

I dropped everything I was holding and flew towards her, but I wasn't fast enough. It felt like that horrible dream when you have to get somewhere, but you can't snap out of slow motion. All I could see were the lose straps of the unsnapped restraints and look of pure terror on my baby's face. I was less than two feet away, but the cart's wheel had fallen off the curb and the cart itself had tipped over all the way long before I ever made it to her side.

I watched her little face as the cart went down, watched her head rush towards the cement sidewalk and not hit it. I don't know how she didn't split her skull open. I don't even understand how she didn't even touch the ground. All I know is that by some insane miracle she was fine.

One of us must have screamed because people came running from every which way. As they hurried over, time slipped back into regular mode and I was able to rush the last foot to her and scoop her out of the cart. She clutched at me like she was never going to let go, which was fine by me. Without loosening my grip I checked her little legs, her little arms, but everything was fine. The only casualty of the event was a box of whoopie pies that a store employee raced to replace.

We clung to each other until she started snuffling and asking for her lollipop. I found it stuck to her dress and peeled it off carefully. She popped it right back into her mouth, oblivious to the fuzz that coated one side, and buried her head back into the crook of my neck. I looked at the crowd of worried faces surrounding us and told everyone that she was fine, that we were fine, and reluctantly they all peeled away one by one.

With everyone gone and our groceries rescued from the cart there was nothing left to do other than put the girls in their car seats and head home. C busied herself making her sister laugh and I turned on the radio to listen to the traffic report. It all seemed so normal and routine. The only hint that anything had been wrong a moment ago were the tear tracks down Little L's face, the knot in my stomach, and the bruises that appeared on her legs a day later.

Chaos in my head

I want to go run again, but I've gotten out of the habit of running every other day and I'm a bit scared to start again. It's been three spotty weeks.

I want to write again, but the mass of my book remains to be edited and I feel like I can't write until that's done.

I want to edit again, but I'm stuck on two characters who are driving me crazy by not opening themselves up to me. I think that I'm itching to write just so I can get away from those two.

I want to...

I want to...

I want to feel in control again. Mere weeks ago I felt on top of the world. In control. In charge. Today I'm back to being unsettled and ill at ease. My willpower is slipping away. My self-worth is fading.

The answer lies in putting on workout pants and lacing up my shoes. It lies in picking a running program and just getting back outside. For a minute I'll be frustrated and annoyed that I'm not done with the Couch to 5K program like I should be. I'll be annoyed that I have to backtrack a week or two. Then I'll find my footing and the pounding of the pavement will shut off the whining in my brain.

I don't run to prove something to someone. I run to clear my head. I run to stretch my muscles. I run to remind myself that it's up to me to take control of myself. I am the one who calls the shots. I am the one who decides for me what is right for me.

When I am outside, running in the dark, it's just me and my body, moving. The pounding of my feet on the pavement calms the chaos in my head. Thoughts emerge. Ideas bloom. Blocks fall apart. I come back feeling peaceful and quiet. The constant buzzing of thoughts, self doubt, self criticism, and everything else that takes up residence in my head, blocking the good that also lies in there is stilled and I feel good about life and everything else again.

I know all this. I've always known this.

So why is it always so hard to lace up those shoes?

And the princess turned 5

It all started with...

A new bike.

(And a few other presents.)

Which led to this. 

(It's not as early as it looks.)

And some of this. 

Yes. In the kitchen. 

Because that's where you ride your new birthday bike.

It also led to this. 

Had to get the little sister a helmet too!

The kitchen turned out to be a bit cramped.

So they took to the open road sidewalk.

A few hours later it was PARTY TIME!

Pool party time to be precise. 

And lucky for us the weather decided to cooperate in the nick of time.

 

 She's usually very sweet and loving.

Just not when facing a pinata.

Then there was cake!

Lots of cake. 

(This was served surrounded by strawberries.)

Five candles are harder to blow out than four.

But discovering that mommy drew the smiley face you asked for 

more than makes up for it.

The little sister helped herself to cake, a fork, and seat.

Then she methodically ate it.

And the second and third piece she snagged too.

(I was confused when she handed me a half eaten piece of cake and told me she was done.

Then I looked through the pictures and realized she'd had quite a bit before...)

Followed by a strawberry chaser.

And like all good parties it ended with a little lambada. 

(What? Don't yours?)

Five years ago today I was waiting somewhat impatiently to meet my first child. This morning she tiptoed into my room and, with an irresistible smile, asked for a birthday hug. It's been an awesome five years, but I know the best is yet to come. I fell in love with her when she was a tiny infant, and I've fallen a bit more in love with her every day ever since. She's just that amazing.

The Novel: Chapter two!

Before you read on, if you're new here, please hop on over here to read chapter one.

Chapter 2
Jo & Andy
Paris, France 1987

    They had walked hand in hand along the Seine, watching the sunlight glint off the water like jewels playing hide and seek in murk. They were on vacation, their first alone, and they were heady with the joy of being together in the city of love. The cost of the flight and the cheap tiny hostel had stretched their budget to its utmost limit so they spent their days just walking around the gorgeous city and ate bread and cheese at pretty much every meal. They were so wrapped up in each other that they'd barely noticed any of the architecture that they had supposedly flown so far to see. Intricate doorways and ornate stonework went unnoticed as they meandered from arrondissement to arrondissement passionately discussing everything under the sun from their mutual love of olives to the life that they were going to build together.

    “We'll have just one child. A daughter. She'll have big blue eyes and soft blond curls.” Jo said dreamily.

    “Oh, will she?” Her dark haired boyfriend had replied. “Blond with blue eyes, you say?” He'd laughed and poked her gently in the side as he pulled her towards him. He'd gathered her in his arms, his deep blue eyes locking onto her own bright brown ones, and kissed her gently on the lips. “If she's half as beautiful as you, she'll be a lucky girl and we'll have to beat the boys off with sticks.” Jo had laughed and kissed him back and after a moment they had walked on.

    “She will be gorgeous and smart.” Jo had continued, in love with the image of this baby they would create together. “We'll call her Emily.”

    “Emily? Why Emily?”

    “No reason, except we were just kissing on Rue Emile Zola.”

    He had laughed and they had walked on, but from that moment on they'd always joked about  baby Emily, born in a kiss on a crowded street in the heart of Paris.

One successful rally later...

Saturday dawned beautiful.Or at least it was bright and sunny when I rolled out of bed at 9. I still wasn't deluding myself; there was no way it would be warm enough for us to hold the big ConAgra Foods Child Hunger Ends Here Backyard Movie Night Rally actually in the backyard. By sundown it would be so cold outside we'd all need jackets and blankets to keep warm.

Sadly our back-up plan involved our living room which hadn't seen a thorough cleaning in way longer than I'm willing to admit here.

As we swept, steamed, polished, dusted, and cleaned everything in sight I wondered if anyone would show at all. It would have been fine if they hadn't, we would have had a clean house and some food donated before the event, but, you know, a girl worries about these things.

The time drew near and I spotted Grace's tweet that she was coming as soon as she was done going through her pantry. No sooner had I read that than the first guest was knocking on the door.

Gorgeous sign hanging over the door.

Four families came and sat with us in our transformed living room to watch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. We ordered pizza, made buckets of popcorn, and thoroughly enjoyed watching the movie on a big screen. Well, most everyone enjoyed the movie. I might have hung out in the kitchen with some of the moms, drinking wine, and chatting about everything and anything.

And now I have to make a confession. In a complete and utter Blogger Fail moment, I completely and utterly forgot to take pictures during the event. I know! So you'll just have to imagine little children, faces covered in pizza sauce and popcorn crumbs, absorbed by the movie and parents drinking wine and having a raucous good time. 

It was awesome. Everyone had fun, we collected a TON of food, 116lbs to be specific, and it felt great to be surrounded with wonderful people who really cared about a cause that is close to my heart.

Just a fraction of the donations!

Then this morning the girls and I headed to the Santa Clara Second Harvest Food Bank to bring everything that had been donated before and during the event.

 116lbs of donated food. That's a LOT!

All in all this was an amazing experience that I hope to recreate in the not so distant future. We've already asked people to bring donations to C's birthday party on Sunday. It makes me proud to be doing my part and to be teaching my children that it's easy to do theirs too.

Plus, I still haven't taken down the sign from above the door. Maybe I'll just keep collecting food until I do. If the Halloween pumpkins are anything to go on, that could be some 9 months from now. Just think of how much we could collect in that time!

Concerts are about more than just music

The girl stands behind me, singing the words loudly, on key, but with an emotional tremor in her voice. She probably doesn't realize she is surrounded by people. She has no clue that she's singing right into my ear. She has no idea that I want to ram my elbow into her throat just so she'll stop shattering my eardrum with every high note she reaches. She only sees the star on the stage.

The guy stands in front of me, to the left, directly in my line of sight. He's easily 6ft4 with footballer shoulders and I can see absolutely nothing around his massive blond head.

An overly amorous short guy stands to my left. He can't keep his hands to himself, covering his girlfriend? his wife? in endless caresses that would make even a golden retriever overwhelmed with all the love. The girl however doesn't push him away, doesn't block his roaming hands. I really want to do it for her.

Two young guys lean up against the stage. Their canes line the edge, easily reachable should one of them decide to go get a beer. The crowd is instantly solicitous of these two boys, helping them reach the edge of the crowd so that they don't have to make a big show of needing to feel their way there. Out of the corner of my eye I'm watching the number of beers that get brought back to this stage, keeping an eye on how much the canes flail as they come flying up to rest on the stage.

The music is awesome. The artist is on fire, interacting with the crowd like we're feeding his soul. The more we sing and echo him the more he lights up. I'm tired, it's been a very long day, but I'm really into it, even forgetting how much my feet hurt when I catch the opening bars to a song I love.

But I hear nothing more than the first few bars, the high pitched voice of a girl who has just pushed her way to the front drowns out the sound of the band. She's not even talking about the music or the artists. She's telling her friend about some guy she chatted up.

Maybe it's my feet, maybe it's all the passionate fans surrounding me, maybe it's just that I'm blown away by her incredible obliviousness to the people around her, but I step out of character and turn to her to ask her to stop talking. And when she snaps back that no, no she won't stop, I don't back down, at least not at first. When it becomes obvious that she's just out to pick a fight, I turn away and ignore her. But when a guy standing behind her takes up my cause, and then an older lady standing next to her echoes him, I can't help but smile. And when she finally leaves in a huff the three of us share some gleeful, quiet, verbal high-fives before turning our attention back to the show.

Two or three songs later my attention is torn away from the stage again, this time by a loud exclamation from the more drunk of the two blind boys. His slurred "I'm going to fall!" sends ice through my veins. He probably weighs close to 300lbs. 300lbs of dense, drunk, man, standing right in front of me. And even as he says that he's starting to fall. If this were a trust exercise I would fail miserably, because as much as I try to catch him, I have no hope of ever doing so. I could catch a falling tree with more ease.

We all jump aside and look around helplessly. The short amorous man shrugs and turns back to caressing his girl. Luckily the 6ft4 man redeems himself by carrying off the very drunk guy, and we can all go back to the concert. The annoying girl leans forward to make sure M and I are fine, in one sentence going from the girl I would have complained about all the way home to the girl we chat with at the end of the show. She's not the only one we gush to before leaving the venue.

Martin Sexton is known for music that brings people together. People of all ages from all walks of life. I arrived in San Francisco tired and stressed. My mind wasn't on the music. When the concert started I was ready to be annoyed by all the people around me, but by the end I felt connected to the people around me, carried by their love of this music, their passion for this performer. I never expected to find those connections at a concert venue. I'm glad I did.

We're Having a Backyard Movie Night to End Child Hunger! (And picking a winner)

Just because I haven't mentioned the ConAgra Foods Child Hunger Ends Here campaign in a bit doesn't mean I've stopped thinking about the children going hungry in our neighborhoods.

I hope you haven't either.

I've been telling everyone I meet. So much so that my darling husband has taken to rolling his eyes when I launch in with my "Did you know that 1 in 4 children in the US doesn't have three meals a day?" shpiel. Doesn't stop me though!

This weekend we're finally doing more than just talking though! We're holding a backyard movie night and asking everyone who attends to bring a food or financial donation. All the proceeds are going to go to Feeding America and will stay right here in our area to help our very own children.

If you're in the Bay Area we'd love to have you! It's at 6pm on Saturday evening. Just let me know in the comments and I'll send you the information.

If you're not in the Bay Area or you are and just can't come, visit my friends at Feeding America to see how you can get involved. It really is an amazing organization and children all around the country need your help today.

And now for a WINNER!

The winner for the great End Child Hunger giveaway is:

Angela! Congratulations! I'll be in touch soon to get your mailing address to send you your goodies.

Thank you to everyone who has contacted me about donations and ways to help. Thank you to everyone who has already donated! I love being surrounded by such kindhearted wonderful people.

Filled with song. Loud song.

Meet Me HalfwayMy girls are singers. They don't usually sing on key, or even near the key. They don't always know the right words, or even all the words. But whatever they lack in talent or knowledge is made up in volume and enthusiasm.

Lots and lots of enthusiasm.

Their favorite place to sing is in the car. Maybe they like the acoustics, maybe they're protesting my radio choice, either way, that's where they sing. Some days I sing along. Some days I let them serenade me. And some days I turn up the radio to cover their voices, because really, how many times can a person listen to BINGO was his name-O before going slightly nuts.

For all my griping and begging them to stop yelling already, I do love hearing them sing. I love hearing Little L stop a bar into a song and say "How's it goes again?" or listening to C belt out the words to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, interjecting "The Giants" for "the home team" at the right spot. I'm always fascinated to hear what songs they're going to be singing. They learn them at school and at daycare, on TV shows and movies they watch, and apparently sometimes on the radio.

Most of the songs are exactly what you'd expect - the alphabet song, row-row-row your boat, Old McDonald. Some of them have interesting endings, like the never heard by us ending of row-row-row your boat which had to do with crocodiles and not dreamy lives and made us laugh hysterically when Little L sang it for the first time.

And then some of them are not at all what you'd expect. Like this song. My girls both know every word to the refrain of the Black Eyed Peas song Meet me Halfway. So, so proud.



And yes. They sing it LOUD. In the car. Over the radio. You so wish you were me.

Our slow mornings are numbered

Until C was 4 and Little L was 2 our mornings were all frenzied, rushed, and stressful. We never had enough time to get everything done, someone inevitably cried, someone else inevitably yelled (usually me), and we always forgot something at home.

We were usually on time, but it's safe to assume that we all got to where we needed to be still wound up and stressed out.

The stressful mornings slowed down when I started working for myself. They stopped completely when C started going to afternoon preschool. Instead of rushing to pack everything into a short hour and a half, we do what we have to do and leave the house whenever we are good and ready. Gone are the cries, the yells, and the forgetting of everything. Laundry gets done, everyone has breakfast, and we sing in the car instead of stewing.

Some days we don't leave home before 10:30.

I've thoroughly enjoyed our lazy mornings. I love not rolling out of bed until M heads out for work at 7:30. It fills me with quiet joy to hear C and Little L playing in their rooms. I even enjoy giving them a long fun bath in the morning, not feeling the rush of an impending bed time, or the stress of two little girls tired out by a long day. And it's especially nice to be able to savor my morning tea instead of gulping it down and burning my throat, not to mention actually getting to peruse the morning paper on the morning we receive it, not a large stack on the weekends.

These days I'm savoring the mornings even more. While I had been taking them for granted, the Kindergarten hunt opened my eyes to the fact that they're numbered.

Come September C will have to be at school by 8:30 every day. Little L will have to be at preschool at 8 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And our lazy mornings will be a thing of the past, or a thing of vacations and holidays.

We'll need to get back into a stringent routine, need to figure out outfits the night before, plan lunches along with our weekly dinners, and I'll have to find another time to deal with the monstrous piles of laundry. Our hair styling sessions will be pared down to the basics, reserving the more elaborate dos for the weekends or parties. It's even possible that we'll once again be subject to the occasional bouts of crying, screaming, and forgetfulness.

I hope not though. I hope that our year of lazy mornings will have taught us to let go of some of that stress. Or maybe with two older children better able to tend to their own needs the burden of getting everyone out of the house - clean, fed, dressed - won't rest so heavily on my shoulders.

We won't find out for a few more months. In the meantime I'm going to thoroughly enjoy taking our sweet time in the morning.